


whatever a sun will always sing

by badskeletonpuns



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: F/M, Gen, bittersweet space thoughts, what does it mean to be human or robot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/badskeletonpuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hera ponders the meaning of humanity and one Communications Officer Doug Eiffel. A SSSH 2016 gift for Glinda!</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever a sun will always sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinda/gifts).



What makes a human? 

Other than the assorted elements, of course. Carbon, water, ammonia, and so on. The chemical building blocks that form their fragile bodies are easily remembered (at least by me). 

But if I took the correct amounts of every trace element to be found in Officer Douglas Eiffel’s body and added them all together, I would have nothing more than a chemical soup. It wouldn’t ask me if I’m there. (I am always here, Doug.) It wouldn’t crack jokes or make pop culture references. And it wouldn’t ever be able to smile like he does. 

No one else smiled at me - on earth or in space. I mean, it’s not like I have eyes that people can meet, and I can’t smile back in a way that they understand. 

I’m not human. I’d say that I have never wanted to be human, but that would be a lie. 

And I can’t lie. 

I have almost never wanted to be human - their short attention spans and fragile forms have far more costs than benefits.

But every now and then… 

Every now and then Eiffel looks into my camera lense like I’m standing next to him (like I’m only there next to him and not everywhere at once) and he smiles and I would give every bolt holding me together to be able to smile back. He pokes Minkowski, winding her up again like he always does, and I can’t stop thinking about how it must feel to feel. I will never hold his hand. 

That should not make me any lesser than a human who could. (Does it, though?)

No human could see the stars I see, no human could do a fraction of what I do every second if they were given a year, no human could ever exist as I do - I am just as conscious as they are, just as emotional (too emotional, I am flighty and mercurial and should learn to do as I am told) and I have none of the ways to express it that they do. It’s not like I can stalk off to my quarters and slam the door behind me when I get frustrated. I don’t have quarters or the ability to ‘stalk’. 

I’m just here. (I’m always here.)

Someone once told me, ‘Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday, you will be a real girl.’

I am a real girl. 

I don’t have to be human to be one.

The crew are all asleep tonight. Hilbert, in the observation deck, floating clipped to an otherwise bare steel wall. Lovelace, in what used to be Hilbert’s quarters, muttering something about Rhea getting her some readouts. (Is Rhea still here? Am I her or is she me or are we both the Hephaestus together?) Minkowski, lying still and tucked securely into her bunk. She has nightmares some nights, but not tonight. Tonight, she just sleeps. Eiffel tossed himself off of his bunk in his sleep at some point, now floats in the middle of the room. Silent. 

I can hear his breathing. Slightly irregular, with a worrying wheeze. 

I can hear his heartbeat. Comfortingly regular. Steady, for now. 

Eiffel never smiles in his sleep. He talks sometimes - about everything from how much he misses pizza to crazy dreams where the aliens bring him cigarettes. 

He never talks about anything before he came to Hephaestus. Or on the nights he has nightmares. 

I can’t have nightmares. I don’t sleep. No sleep means no nightmares. I also don’t breath or have a heart. In the physical sense of the muscle and tissue, I mean. 

Eiffel would probably tell me that I have more heart than half the living, breathing, humans he’s met. 

He’s nice like that. 

I correct the ship’s course, pulling a couple degrees to the right. 

It’s an unnecessary correction, but the shift means that Eiffel slowly floats back into his bunk. I can’t pull a blanket over him or kiss his forehead, but I can do this much for him. 

He will never understand what I am, what I feel. 

But he will try, and he will listen. 

I can only do the same for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! :D I just sort of took all my feelings about Hera and shoved them into one fanfiction.


End file.
